Page 39 of Faultlines

Ethan

I unlock the office door a little after eight on Saturday morning.

The building is empty. The hallway lies in shadow, broken only by thin ribbons of morning light spilling through the front windows. On any other weekend, I’d welcome the quiet.

Today, it feels like avoidance.

I toss my keys onto my desk. The sharp clatter echoes through the empty office before fading back into silence.

Before I left the house, I scribbled Claire a note on a flimsy piece of notebook paper and left it on the kitchen counter.

My phone vibrates with a text.

Claire: Morning. I’m taking Ellie and Mona to the ranch today if you want to meet up with us.

The message is so ordinary it makes my neck burn. I lock my phone without responding, then spend the next hour trying to focus on a proposal due the following week. Every few minutes, I reread the same paragraph.

My phone buzzes again.

Claire: Still at the office?

I ignore it. The irritation from the night before hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s grown. I can still picture Ellie scanning the doorway during the luncheon.

Does trying even matter if you repeatedly don’t show up?

Logically, I know Claire isn’t out shopping or having lunch with friends; she’s working—helping kids who need her. The problem is that understanding her reasons doesn’t make me any less disappointed.

Around noon, my phone lights up again.

Claire: Ellie wants to know if you’ll meet us here at the ranch for dinner.

I know I’m being petty by not responding. I open another conversation.

Brooke.

I trace the outline of her name on the screen and start to type before I can talk myself out of it.

Working today?

The response comes instantly.

Brooke: Not really.

The speed of it makes me happy. That should bother me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I type back.

Want to grab lunch?

The three dots of her reply appear and disappear. For a few seconds, the office feels too quiet.

Brooke: Shouldn’t you be doing architecture things or family things?

This is architecture. Important structures require a solid foundation, and my foundation requires a sandwich.

Brooke: That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.

Maple Street Bistro. It’s in Silver Creek. Quieter.

Three dots appear then disappear like a tiny dance of indecision on the screen.